Haunted by the Past
by KatZen
Summary: There are some things in life that you can't forget, no matter how hard you try.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**** The Thunderbirds do not belong to me, even though I wish they did. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this tale. Any original characters, who may pop up briefly in this, do belong to me.**

**AN: So, I should have been doing some Discrete Maths, but this dastardly Plot Bunny bit me hard. At the most inconvenient time too. This is another experiment with writing styles. It makes sense to me, but since I know what I'm trying to convey, it's not the most objective measure of whether this works. Any thoughts, pro or con, would be much appreciated. **

Haunted by the Past

_There are some things in life that you can't forget, no matter how hard you try._

_0100 hours_

_Fort Lauderdale, Florida_

From the outset, it looks like the average family home. Made of bricks and mortar, with a car parked haphazardly in the driveway and a porch light emitting a soft, orange glow into the night sky.

Appearances are deceptive.

On the inside, organised chaos reigns by day. With a single parent trying to control five rowdy boys, it's inevitable that they live in their own version of bedlam. By nightfall, however, a forced calm rules, as each little Tracy hellion drops off to sleep.

Or, at least, it would be like that under normal circumstances.

Anything, _everything_, is far from normal in this household. Has been ever since The Incident, which happened nearly a week ago.

I start this tale near a darkened room, from the outside, looking in, and watching hawkeyed over an almost ten year old boy. His oldest little brother sleeps on the bed opposite him. With his plush star gripped loosely in one hand, the peroxide blond rolls over, looking almost peaceful as he dreams on.

It is a stark contrast to the other boy. My other son.

He twitches and fidgets, twisting from lying on his tummy to resting on his back. He kicks off the blanket impatiently, and flings an arm out, grasping empty air. The boy shivers, despite being covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The milk-chocolate brown locks, matted with perspiration, clings to his forehead as he burrows his head into his pillow and he lets out a bone-chilling, blood-curdling scream…

* * *

_A splash of white paint here, a daub of white paint there. _

_In fact, it is all white. _

_White and cold. _

_And wet._

_And sticky._

_It tastes metallic, almost like eating the railings of the Titanic._

_Or so you imagine; it's not a culinary delight you've tried before._

_Why does it taste so iron-y?_

_It's blood. Dripping into your mouth, pooling at the base of your tongue. You can smell it too, the bitter stench overpowering all other salient thoughts._

_It takes a while to gain your bearings, but you get it eventually. _

_Snow. _

_Lots and lots of it._

_You squirm against the solid form of snow on your back. It registers that you're trapped here. You move until you collide with a hand, an arm, the side of a torso. _

_Mom. _

_Of course. _

_Your hands, shaky as they are, butterfly over her. You want to wake her up. You want her to wake up of her own accord, hold you and tell you that everything's going to be fine. Just this once, you want her to be the strong one._

_Her eyes flutter open, and you let out the breath you didn't even know you were holding. _

"_Scott," she gasps, and in that moment, everything stills. You know what's coming, and you know she knows it too. You know it, but you don't want to believe it._

_So you don't._

"_Scotty," she says again, sounding frail, like a flower wilting. You can just about make out the blue tinges to her lips, her fingers and the other parts of her skin that's exposed. _

_Cyanosis._

_She raises her hand, as best as she can, and you move into it, let her trace the features that make you you._

"_It'll be okay, Mom," you say, despite the waver in your voice. You spout out some more reassurances, but deep down, you know you're spouting out rubbish. No one's coming for you, for either of you. You know that as well as you know your own name._

"_Scott, look at me."_

_And you understand everything in that minute. You've never seen the world with such clarity, such starkness. You've never known that it could hold so much cruelty in one small act. In this place, colour fails to exist; everything exists in binary. _

_There either is, or there isn't._

_The world is black and white, no shades of grey._

_There is right and wrong. There is no thing as doing the wrong thing with the best of intentions. There is no way you can do the right thing, but for the wrong reasons._

_There is success and there is failure. Nothing in between._

_There is life. There is death. A state of limbo is just a figment of your imagination. A state of limbo is just hoping for something that will turn to ash._

_Her lips move, she says something, but it's so distorted so that you can't understand it. _

_And then her hand goes slack, drops to her side. You want to read her her Last Rites, but you don't know what it is. Mom is… was a Catholic, and you know it would be important to her, so that makes it important to you. So you do the best you can instead; you offer up a quick prayer to a God you, bizarrely, still believe in. _

_It's not enough, it will never be enough, but it's all you have._

_You move to give her one last hug, but your hand goes straight through her. She begins to melt, slip through your fingers as you try desperately to cling onto her. She disappears like a snowman, evaporating into nothing._

_No._

_This can't be happening. _

_You can't be losing her, all over again. You'll never forgive yourself if you do. You lost her once, and it was bad enough; you'll never forgive yourself for that either._

_No!_

* * *

Johnny, always a light sleeper, rouses himself awake after that, and he potters over towards Scott. It should be me, since I'm Scott's father, but I can't bring myself to do anything other than watch. It hurts too much, for him and for me. Besides, this seems more like a fraternal thing. Bonds forged through adversity are often the strongest ones.

"Scotty?" Johnny whispers so quietly that I have to strain to hear what he says.

Scott's eyes snap open to attention, and they dart over his surroundings, making him seem slightly wild and deranged, like an animal that's fighting after being tranquillised.

"What is it?"

"Do you want to sleep with Plushie? He'll make you feel better."

I don't know what it is, but at night time, Johnny seems much younger than his eight years. It seems like his strategy of hanging onto a childhood innocence he doesn't want to lose, in the wake of a catastrophe. I don't have the heart, or the inclination, to pull him out of this stage, not when he's lost so much.

"I'm okay," Scott replies, voice gruff. He sounds almost like a man, much too old before his time, and I wonder when I lost the ten year old boy that is my son.

John seemingly ignores what Scott says and places the star beside Scott's head, before picking the blanket up off the floor and covering it over Scott. Scott gives a weak smile, although it doesn't reach his eyes. John smiles back, shyly, before clambering onto the bed with Scott.

"What are you doing?"

"I can't sleep without Plushie."

Johnny drifts off back to Lala Land quickly. Scotty, not so fast. He breaks my heart as he scoots himself to the edge of his bed, away from any physical contact, and confesses to his little brother.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. I'm sorry I killed Mom," he says, voice cracking. "I know you and the others will probably hate me for that for the rest of your life, and that's okay. I deserve it. But however much you loathe me, it will never amount to how much I detest myself for what I've done."

I know I should go in there and tell Scotty just how wrong he is, but I can't. All he'll hear is empty words, and empty words won't make this less painful for him, less painful for both of us. In that instant, I understand my own inadequacies as a father, and I learn that there are some things in life I won't be able to fix for my sons. They will have to learn to deal with the knocks of life the hard way, and that cuts me right to the core.

Instead, I close the door and move away, leaving behind the shell of a little boy, broken beyond repair, trapped in a nightmare that isn't his own making.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: ******** The Thunderbirds do not belong to me, even though I wish they did. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this tale. Any original characters, who may pop up briefly in this, do belong to me.**

**AN: Thank you so much for the reviews. They were a pleasant surprise to read after coming home from an 8 hour shift at work. I will get around to replying to them (probably after Tuesday, because I'll have finished a Maths exam by then and I'll have some free time) because I did appreciate the feedback you gave me. Just to clarify, this does sort of tie in with some of my other works, but I think it can be read easily if you haven't read them.**

Chapter Two

_1600 hours_

_Tracy Enterprises, New York_

Unsurprisingly, around this time of year, I think of her more often.

Unsurprisingly, because it's been twelve years to the day when I lost her.

When _we_ lost her.

I think about the before and afters, mostly. I remember what it was like when she was here. I was less of a task master, more open and receptive to affection. I remember always being able to find time for the boys, no matter how busy work was. I remember the weekends. Saturdays and Sundays were always family time. Lucy had enforced it; the boys would complete their homework on Friday night, without fail, and I would leave the file folders at the office, where they belonged. Saturdays and Sundays always included a trip to a museum, or the beach on sunny days, or a picnic in the local park.

The afters were different.

There was no more family time.

How could there be, when we were barely a family? It was to each their own.

I don't remember much, but I do remember one night. It was a week after…

I can remember standing outside, when my son needed me the most. I left it up to John to try and do the job I was meant to do.

I should have gone in there. I knew it then, and I know it now.

And I would have done, if a small part of me hadn't resented him at the time. A part of me still does, and that fills me with a feeling of shameful disgust.

I think Scott's unaware of how I feel, and I have no intention of disillusioning him to that.

Don't get me wrong; I don't resent the fact that Scott's alive. I don't resent him for staying alive. I love my son more than words can say, and I'm damn proud of him for having the strength to hang on until he was found. All I have to do is think about his accomplishments, think about how far he's come, what he's done for me over the years, and I know I've been blessed with a true gift.

But a small part of me resents him all the same. A small part of me resents the fact that he was there in Lucille's time of dying. He was the one who heard her last words, he was the one who would have held her hand, hold her close and made it easier for her.

It should have been me instead of Lucille. I should have been in the snow, with him. I would have survived with him. I know I could have done it. I know I would have done it.

You see, it was a family vacation; the five boys, Luce and myself. A two week break from the stress of life and a chance to escape. And for the first few days, it was exactly that. On the fourth day, however, Luce caught a cold. Not bad enough for us to pack up and leave for home – the boys had been looking forward to this vacation since we had surprised them with it, so she would never have allowed her illness to disrupt their enjoyment – but bad enough to render her out of action for a few days.

I was left in charge of the troop while she recuperated. But, such is life, and one boy in my regiment fell victim to the same thing Lucille had.

Scott didn't cope with falling sick well. He never has, and he still doesn't cope with ailments. His personal motto? A doctor for the minor things, ignorance for the serious stuff.

He sulked for the rest of the day, after Lucille had bundled him off to bed since he had spiked a bit of a temperature, because his brothers were out on the slopes, having fun, and he couldn't join them.

The next day, he was worse, and definitely in no mood to sulk; he was too tired and drained for that. His temperature had hit an all-time high, and he couldn't breathe for more than a few minutes without having to cough up half his lung. I had wanted to stay with him, but the other boys were becoming restless at being cooped up indoors. Lucille had pushed me out of the rented chalet, telling me that it was better that I was better off with the boys instead of with Scott. At my quirked eyebrow, she explained that since she had already had what Scott was afflicted with; it was unlikely that she would be affected again. It made sense at the time, but it makes no sense to me now. She was trying to do the right thing, with the best of intentions, and the most disastrous consequences.

Virgil and John were on the slopes, while Gordon and Alan, too young to ski or snowboard, stayed with me and we built a snow fort. We heard news of the avalanche in the resort's coffee shop, John and Virgil having come indoors to warm up. I had treated the boys to a large mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows when it happened.

We couldn't establish contact with Lucille or Scott.

We were frozen to our seats when we heard the approximated fatality count.

We were told not to hope for survival of our family.

So we didn't. We prepared for the worst. I was prepared to say goodbye to my wife and my eldest son, without even trying to find them. I was giving up on them.

Surprisingly, that isn't what hurts the most, even to this very day.

It's something Scott did, something he still does.

He refused to talk about it.

He refuses to talk about it.

He, and he alone, know what went on in that air bubble.

He, and he alone, knows what Lucille's last words were.

He, and he alone, would have been privy to what her fears were when they were trapped.

He knows what it was like, what it would have been like for Lucille.

As much as I want him to, he steadfastly refuses to share the details. I've read reports of what happened, but reports are cold and clinical. They only deal with the facts. Scott's account would be more detailed, more personal, and more able to give me closure.

I want to know what happened when they were trapped, so I know why he, to this day, despite my reassurances that he's wrong, believes he killed his own mother.

I want to know what I can do to help him, help fix him, make him understand that there was no way he is responsible for Luce's death. It was just one of those things; something I learnt to acknowledge, if not accept, many moons ago.

I want more than he's willing to share.

I wonder why I'm thinking of this. It's been brewing for a while, this niggling little thought.

And it hits me.

Scott's out in a war zone right now. Right in the thick of it.

We had an argument before he was shipped out on his tour of duty. It's still unresolved.

And it hits me, a bolt of lightning to my head.

Scott's out there, in the middle of a war zone, and I have so much unfinished business with him.

Scott's out there, in the middle of a war zone, harbouring Lucille's last secret from me.

Scott's out there, in the middle of a war zone.

Something's going to happen to him.

I can feel it.

* * *

_2300 hours_

_The war-torn nation of Bereznick. _

It's the dead of night, and I can hear the ruckus in the background. The sky lights up, like it does every New Year back home, but this is no fireworks display. I hear the rumble of thunder, the flash of blinding light.

An explosion, and a mighty big one too. I can hear it decimate whatever gets in its way, hear it rip and destroy hundreds of lives. Damn war in Bereznick.

So, even if I wanted to sleep, I wouldn't be able to, due to the noise.

But, I don't want to sleep.

I need it, but I won't.

Last night I had The Dream.

Only, it's not a dream. Dreams imply that they're pleasant, even enjoyable, if you're lucky enough to remember them. Dreams suggest unicorns flying over rainbows in fields of gold. Dreams imply a hope for the future.

Last night I had The Nightmare.

For twelve years, I had managed to escape it without too much incident, but over the past few months, it's come back to haunt me.

It was much worse than usual last night. I can recall it with such vivid clarity, it almost seems real...

* * *

_Mom's there, but she isn't. You can hear her voice, you can even see the vague outline of her body, but you can't get anywhere near her. It's like there's an invisible barrier surrounding her, one you can't smash through, no matter how hard you try. _

_She screams your name, sounds anguished, but she can't see you. Can't sense your presence. You yell back to her, futilely try to fight your way to her, but you never quite get there. _

_She doesn't hear you, but you can hear her. You can hear the sobs that wrack through her body, watch on as she trembles; the effort of finding you takes its toll on her body. She fights what's happening to her, and it pains you. You don't want her to worry about, not when you're right there. You don't want to add to her suffering; it's bad enough as it is._

_And then you see it, in clear, technicolour vision. You see her thoracic cavity collapse in on itself, buckle under the weight of the snow that shrouds you. You hear the rattle of her last scream being sucked out of her. You see Death hovering over her; see Death cradle your mother before spiriting what defines her as your mother away from you in a flash of light. _

_And, finally, you manage to force your way to her, but it's too late. Your hands ghost over her frozen body, and as usual, she melts. _

_Only this time, she doesn't vanish. She pools into a sticky pool of blood. You pull your hands away, but you can't. They're stuck. You can feel the crimson red permeate through your skin, paint you permanently with a substance you will never be able to wash off. So you try to wipe your hands on the snow instead, but that doesn't work either. The blood's still there._

_There's a rumble on top of you, like thunder, and you can feel the pressure of the snow compact down on you. The air in your lungs gets knocked out of you, and you claw away at the snow, trying to escape. _

_To no avail._

_You're stuck there. _

_There's another rumble from above you. There's no one coming for you._

_You close your eyes and know no more._

* * *

So, no, I don't sleep. I see enough horror in my waking hours right now; I don't need it invading my sleeping time too.

My comrades have picked up on this, and I can tell that they're worried. I can tell that they think that the lack of sleep is going to affect my ability to make judgement calls, make me irrational. I think they think I'm losing my wits. I try to brush it off, by telling them that I'm just not tired.

But that's not the truth.

I know it's crazy to be afraid of going to sleep, but I am. So, I'm going to fight my body. I'm going to abstain from giving it the thing it needs the most. I don't care how many people try to talk me out of this; I'm doing it. Out here, I'd rather be physically tired than emotionally drained. That's the truth, or at least some part of it.

The truth, the whole truth, is… I'm shit scared right now.

I'm terrified that if I go to sleep, I won't wake up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: ********The Thunderbirds do not belong to me, even though I wish they did. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this tale. Any original characters, who may pop up briefly in this, do belong to me.**

**********AN: Thank you so much for all the kind reviews. The support and the fact that you're enjoying this means the world. :)**

Chapter Three

_0230 hours_

_His and her suite, Tracy Island_

For a tropical island, the temperature can drop quite sharply in the middle of the night. They had left the balcony doors open during the balmy afternoon breeze. No one had predicted the current cool snap that affects them.

She feels the cool change snake its way into the room, as she reclines on pillows. The baby – the first of many with her new husband, she hopes – kicks against the wall of her stomach, a precursor to what is going to happen to his or her father.

Beside her, her husband frowns in his sleep and shivers slightly against the breeze.

_Married to me less than a week and he's having nightmares already? Jeez, this is going to work out well, isn't it?_

But that isn't it; he was resting somewhat peacefully before the cool change rolled through.

Having lived with him before when they were both at Yale, she is well aware of what is coming. Gently, she manoeuvres herself to the verge of the bed, and braces herself for the storm.

* * *

_The temperature drops by several degrees, but that's about the only difference you can discern._

_Mom's there, and this time, you can feel her. You can reach out and touch her. She feels like ice; solid and liquid all at the same time. She's alive, though, and you take that as a good sign. _

_Maybe this time things'll be different. Mom's never made it this far before. She's always managed to slip through your fingers, stop being a tangible entity to you before this point._

_You hold onto her hand, but it's clammy, cold as ice. It doesn't feel like her, doesn't resemble the soft, moisturised skin you're used to. Your hands move over hers, tracing the outline._

_It's not her hand._

_It's not even a hand._

_A gun. _

_You can feel the magazine, the trigger, the silencer. _

_And now your hand feels like it's on fire, holding the blasted thing. You try to break contact, but you can't. _

_She's still your mother. _

_You begin to panic. Your pupils dilate wider than you know possible, and your breathing comes in ragged gasps. Your free hand claws desperately at the snow, but you can't reach it. You seem to hit some transparent barrier. _

_This time, you're in the box with Mom. _

_She turns her head towards you and smiles one last time. The smile's all wrong; stretched too wide across her face, like a jack-o-lantern, twisted and distorted, too many sharp, pointed teeth being bared at you. She coughs, deep and throaty. Or maybe it's a chuckle; you aren't too sure._

_But her eyes strike you the most. They glow with an ethereal yellow tinge. They seem to mock you, mock your predicament. _

_It passes in a flash. In a flash, she's gone, but she stays there, a melting wax model, frozen in time. _

_Her hand is still a gun, only now it begins to feel like a long lost friend. You can't believe how snugly it fits in your hand. You don't even notice you raising the gun to your temple, your finger inching towards the trigger. _

_And then the box begins to crack, and the snow begins to melt inwards. It's water, you know it is, but for some reason, your skin is on fire. Finally, finally, you drop your mother's hand and try to stem the leaks. _

_It doesn't work. _

_Your skin itches with a ferocity you've never felt before, and you stop whatever you're doing to counteract that. You scratch, scraping skin off until it's red and raw. _

_And there's blood. More blood. Yours along with hers. _

_The box cracks some more, but this time, you can hear voices. You can hear people scurrying around on top of you._

_There's a breakthrough. You see a ray of light and a shadow moving towards you. _

_A hand, palm up, ready to pull you up._

_Look at that._

_Hope._

* * *

He stills, just for a millisecond, but she uses it to her advantage. She moves in, gathers him as close to her as she can with her protruding belly, and holds him in a tight embrace. Her arm loops over his ribs, her leg hooks over his thigh, and her hand grasps his. He struggles a bit, but she won't let him go. She thinks she knows what he's dreaming about – she's not entirely sure – but it doesn't matter. She's going to weather the storm out with him.

His eyes snap open to attention, blue sizzling with an electric current, his body rigid.

"Scott?"

He flings the limbs off him carefully, hyper aware of not hurting his wife or unborn child and swings himself upright and perches on the verge of the bed.

"Scott? You don't have to do this on your own now. Talk to me, please?"

He ignores her and buries his head in his hands. His palms dig into his eyes; his fingers grip his hair so tight that the tips turn white. He takes a moment to compose himself, as he always does when it gets this bad.

"Back in a minute," he mutters, rising to his feet.

There is only one thing that can help him deaden the howls of the past.

* * *

_0230 hours_

_The kitchen, Tracy Island._

They've been back for more than three hours, but I still can't get back to sleep. They're back, back from a rescue that could have gone so terribly wrong, they're alive and mostly unharmed, and for that, I should be grateful.

I _am_ grateful.

What I'm not happy about is my Field Commander's performance on the rescue. His brothers report him as being erratic, rescinding instructions just as fast as he issued them. On three separate incidences, Gordon had been in danger in being caught up in the rubble of a mid-ocean oil rig that was collapsing in on it, and Scott hadn't seen fit to warn his brother so that Gordon could move out of its way. The sensors on Thunderbird Four don't pick up debris that's falling from on top; they only detect around the sides and the bottom of the submersible.

I know I shouldn't blame him; he's been through a terrible ordeal on the rescue before the last one, and it's no doubt shaken him up a bit. We almost didn't get him back in time. The Hood abducted him, drugged him and left him to die, trapped six feet underground in his own grave. The Hood almost won, and I know Scott's very much aware of that.

The fact that he was buried alive, once again, can't be doing him any favours. I'd imagine it has reopened up many sore wounds for him. Maybe it's time for me to force him to seek professional help, since he doesn't want any from me. I know it's a futile thought. Scott's as stubborn as a mule; until he's willing to admit that he needs help, he won't accept advice or tips that given to him. Believe me, I've been down this path with him many times before.

Scott stumbles his way into the kitchen and heads straight for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label that's been sitting in the pantry.

I watch him as he pours a measured amount into a tumbler, just enough to cover the bottom of the glass and skull it down in two easy gulps. He keeps his back to me the entire time. I don't even think he's registered my presence.

His back is a nervous system of scar tissue. There are more than thirty running laterally and longitudinally across his spine, intersecting each other at different points. The knot in his spine, the one where a bullet is lodged between two vertebral discs, is more prominent than ever. It serves as a reminder that I still haven't managed to approach him about his time in the Air Force. I still haven't managed to get him to open up about the atrocities he saw as a prisoner of war.

It reminds me of more inadequacies I have as a father.

It reminds me of how I've failed him over the years, ever since that first night terror.

It reminds me that while I can't undo the damage I've created in the past, I can help fix it for the future.

Scott pours himself another measured amount. I sigh to myself; this is not the long term solution to his issues.

He turns around, acknowledges my presence and raises the bottle of whiskey in the air. I shake my head.

"It's too early for me, son."

He swills the amber liquid, a vortex forming in the glass. "Meaning it should be too early for me, right?"

"You're twenty five years old, Scott; that's for you to decide."

I hope he takes the bait I've left for him, but he doesn't. He gulps down his second glass and stares studiously at the floor. There's something he wants to say. I can sense it, so I stay where I am. If there's one thing I've learned with Scott over the years, it's to let him go at his own pace. If you push him, he'll clam up and it's an almost impossible task to pry him open again.

"I hate the snow," he says eventually, a note of finality in his voice. "I hate it."

Over what's left of our natural lifetime as father and son, I hope that this tiny confession is the first of many to come.


End file.
